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POEMS 

OF 

MARIA    LOWELL 


THE  POEMS  OF 
MARIA  LOWELL 


CAMBRIDGE 

THE   RIVERSIDE   PRESS 
1907 


CONTENTS 

THE   MAIDEN'S   HARVEST  PAGE   3 

SONG  6 

THE   ALPINE   SHEEP  9 

AFRICA  12 

JESUS    AND    THE    DOVE  19 

THE    MORNING-GLORY  23 

THE     SLAVE-MOTHER  25 

NECKLACES  27 

CADIZ  28 

ROME  30 

THE     GRAVE     OF    KEATS  31 

AVIGNON  33 

ROUEN,     PLACE     DE     LA     PUCELLE  35 

THE     SICK-ROOM  37 

AN     OPIUM     FANTASY  39 

SONNET  41 

SONNET  42 

SONNET  43 

SONNET  44 

MEMORIES     OF     WATERS  45 


NOTE 

MARIA  WHITE  was  bom  in  Watertown,  Massachusetts,  on  the  8th 
of  July,  1821.  She  was  married  to  James  Russell  Lowell  on  the  26th 
of  December,  1844.  She  died  October  27,  1853. 

In  the  months  following  her  death  THE  POEMS  OF  MARIA  LOW 
ELL  were  prepared  for  publication  by  Mr.  Lowell,  and  they  were  pri 
vately  printed  at  the  Riverside  Press  in  1855.  A  small  edition  was 
distributed  among  Lowell's  friends  and  well-wishers,  and  the  volume 
is  now  a  rarity  treasured  by  its  few  fortunate  possessors.  It  has  long 
deserved  reprinting,  both  for  its  own  sake  as  a  singularly  pure  and 
winning  expression  of  the  temper  of  those  years  and  for  its  interest 
as  a  revelation  of  a  flawless  marriage  of  true  minds.  A  few  years 
before  his  death  Lowell  entertained  the  project  of  reissuing  the 
poems  with  some  additions  from  manuscript  and  periodical  sources ; 
but  as  he  died  without  carrying  it  out,  it  has  been  thought  best  to 
republish  the  little  book  in  its  original  slenderness  and  simplicity. 


POEMS 


THE    MAIDEN'S    HARVEST 

THERE  goeth,  with  the  early  light, 

Across  a  barren  plain, 
One  who,  with  face  as  morning  bright, 

Singeth,  "I  come  again! 

"And  every  grain  I  scatter  free, 

An  hundred-fold  shall  yield, 
Till  waveth  like  a  golden  sea 

This  dark  and  barren  field." 

She  casteth  seed  upon  the  ground 
From  out  her  pure  white  hand, 

And  little  winds  steal  up  around 
To  bear  it  through  the  land. 

She  strikes  her  harp,  she  sings  her  song; 

She  sings  so  loud  and  clear, 
"Arise!  arise!  ye  sleeping  throng, 
And  bud  and  blossom  here!" 


[4] 

When  o'er  the  hills  she  passed  away, 
< .      The  Spring  remembered  her, 
And  came,  with  sun  and  air  of  May, 
The  barren  earth  to  stir. 

And  dropping  dew  the  spot  did  love, 

And  lingered  there  till  noon ; 
And  winds  and  rains  moved  on  above 

In  softly-changing  tune. 

So,  when  the  Autumn  cometh  round, 
The  golden  heads  bend  low,  — 

And  near  and  nearer  to  the  ground 
Their  royal  beard  doth  flow. 

The  poor  rejoice;  in  throngs  they  come 
To  reap  the  dropping  grain ;  — 

Their  voices  rise  in  busy  hum: 

"  Who,  who  hath  sowed  the  plain  ? 

"  And  who  hath  wrought  such  bounteous  cheer 

Where  all  before  was  dead  ?  " 
They  bless  the  unseen  Giver  dear 
Who  gave  this  daily  bread. 


With  harp  in  hand,  a  maiden  bright 
Passed  slowly  by  the  throng, 

With  face  as  fair  as  sunset  light 
The  maiden  sang  her  song. 

"  In  morning-time  I  sowed  this  plain, 

Blest  may  the  evening  be, 

Which  gives  back  every  little  grain 

An  hundred-fold  to  me!" 


SONG 

OH  bird,  them  dartest  to  the  sun 

When  morning  beams  first  spring, 

And  I,  like  thee,  would  swiftly  run, 
As  sweetly  would  I  sing: 

Thy  burning  heart  doth  draw  thee  up 

Unto  the  source  of  fire; 
Thou  drinkest  from  its  glowing  cup, 

And  quenchest  thy  desire. 

Oh  dew,  thou  droppest  soft  below, 
And  pearlest  all  the  ground, 

Yet  when  the  noontide  comes,  I  know 
Thou  never  canst  be  found; 

I  would  like  thine  had  been  my  birth, 

Then  I,  without  a  sigh, 
Might  sleep  my  night  through  on  the  earth, 

To  waken  in  the  sky. 


[7] 

Oh  clouds,  ye  little  tender  sheep, 

Pastured  in  fields  of  blue, 
While  moon  and  stars  your  fold  can  keep, 

And  gently  shepherd  you,  — 

Let  me.  too,  follow  in  the  train 
That  flocks  across  the  night, 

Or  lingers  on  the  open  plain 

With  new-shorn  fleeces  white. 

Oh  singing  winds,  that  wander  far, 

Yet  always  seem  at  home, 
And  freely  play  'twixt  star  and  star, 

Along  the  bending  dome, 

I  often  listen  to  your  song, 

Yet  never  hear  you  say 
One  word  of  all  the  happy  worlds 

That  shine  so  far  away. 

For  they  are  free,  ye  all  are  free, 
And  bud,  and  dew,  and  light, 

Can  dart  upon  the  azure  sea, 
And  leave  me  to  my  night; 


[8] 

Oh  would  like  theirs  had  been  my  birth, 

Then  I,  without  a  sigh, 
Might  sleep  this  night  through  on  the  earth 

To  waken  in  the  sky. 


THE  ALPINE  SHEEP 

ADDRESSED  TO  A  FRIEND,  AFTER  THE  LOSS 
OF  A  CHILD 

WHEN  on  my  ear  your  loss  was  knelled, 

And  tender  sympathy  upburst, 
A  little  spring  from  memory  welled, 

Which  once  had  quenched  my  bitter  thirst. 

And  I  was  fain  to  bear  to  you 

A  portion  of  its  mild  relief, 
That  it  might  be  as  healing  dew, 

To  steal  some  fever  from  your  grief. 

After  our  child's  untroubled  breath 

Up  to  the  Father  took  its  way, 
And  on  our  home  the  shade  of  Death 

Like  a  long  twilight  haunting  lay, 

And  friends  came  round,  with  us  to  weep 

Her  little  spirit's  swift  remove, 
The  story  of  the  Alpine  sheep 

Was  told  to  us  by  one  we  love. 


They,  in  the  valley's  sheltering  care, 

Soon  crop  the  meadow's  tender  prime, 

And  when  the  sod  grows  brown  and  bare, 

The  shepherd  strives  to  make  them  climb 

To  airy  shelves  of  pasture  green, 

That  hang  along  the  mountain's  side, 

Where  grass  and  flowers  together  lean, 

And  down  through  mist  the  sunbeams  slide : 

But  nought  can  tempt  the  timid  things 
The  steep  and  rugged  path  to  try, 

Though  sweet  the  shepherd  calls  and  sings, 
And  seared  below  the  pastures  lie, 

Till  in  his  arms  their  lambs  he  takes, 

Along  the  dizzy  verge  to  go, 
Then,  heedless  of  the  rifts  and  breaks, 

They  follow  on,  o'er  rock  and  snow. 

And  in  those  pastures,  lifted  fair, 

More  dewy-soft  than  lowland  mead, 

The  shepherd  drops  his  tender  care, 

And  sheep  and  lambs  together  feed. 


[11] 

This  parable,  by  Nature  breathed, 

Blew  on  me  as  the  South-wind  free 

O'er  frozen  brooks,  that  flow  unsheathed 
From  icy  thraldom,  to  the  sea. 

A  blissful  vision,  through  the  night, 
Would  all  my  happy  senses  sway, 

Of  the  good  Shepherd  on  the  height, 
Or  climbing  up  the  starry  way, 

' 
Holding  our  little  lamb  asleep,  — 

While,  like  the  murmur  of  the  sea, 
Sounded  that  voice  along  the  deep, 
Saying,  "  Arise  and  follow  me ! " 


AFRICA 

SHE  sat  where  the  level  sands 
Sent  back  the  sky's  fierce  glare; 
She  folded  her  mighty  hands, 
And  waited  with  calm  despair, 
While  the  red  sun  dropped  down  the  streaming  air. 

Her  throne  was  broad  and  low, 
Builded  of  cinnamon ;  — 
Huge  ivory,  row  on  row, 
Varying  its  columns  dun, 
Barred  with  the  copper  of  the  setting  sun. 

Up  from  the  river  came 
The  low  and  sullen  roar 
Of  lions,  with  eyes  of  flame, 
That  haunted  its  reedy  shore, 
And  the  neigh  of  the  hippopotamus, 
Trampling  the  watery  floor. 


[13] 

Her  great  dusk  face  no  light 
From  the  sunset-glow  could  take ; 
Dark  as  the  primal  night 
Ere  over  the  earth  God  spake 
It  seemed  for  her  a  dawn  could  never  break. 

She  opened  her  massy  lips, 
And  sighed  with  a  dreary  sound, 
As  when  by  the  sand's  eclipse 
Bewildered  men  are  bound, 
And  like  a  train  of  mourners 
The  columned  winds  sweep  round. 

She  said :  "  My  torch  at  fount  of  day 
I  lit,  now  smouldering  in  decay; 
Through  futures  vast  I  grope  my  way. 

"  I  was  sole  Queen  the  broad  earth  through : 
My  children  round  my  knees  upgrew, 
And  from  my  breast  sucked  Wisdom's  dew. 

"  Day  after  day  to  them  I  hymned; 
Fresh  knowledge  still  my  song  o'erbrimmed, 
Fresh  knowledge,  which  no  time  had  dimmed. 


"  I  sang  of  Numbers ;  soon  they  knew 
The  spell  they  wrought,  and  on  the  blue 
Foretold  the  stars  in  order  due;  — 

"  Of  Music;  and  they  fain  would  rear 
Something  to  tell  its  influence  clear; 
Uprose  my  Memnon,  with  nice  ear, 

"  To  wait  upon  the  morning  air, 
Until  the  sun  rose  from  his  lair 
Swifter,  at  greet  of  lutings  rare. 

"  I  sang  of  Forces  whose  great  bands 
Could  knit  together  feeble  hands 
To  uprear  Thought's  supreme  commands ; 

"  Then,  like  broad  tents,  beside  the  Nile 
They  pitched  the  Pyramids'  great  pile; 
Where  light  and  shade  divided  smile; 

"  And  on  white  walls,  in  stately  show, 
Did  Painting  with  fair  movement  go, 
Leading  the  long  processions  slow. 


[15] 

"  All  laws  that  wondrous  Nature  taught, 
To  serve  my  children's  skill  I  brought, 
And  still  for  fresh  devices  sought. 

"  What  need  to  tell  ?  they  lapsed  away, 
Their  great  light  quenched  in  twilight  gray, 
Within  their  winding  tombs  they  lay; 

"  And  centuries  went  slowly  by, 
And  looked  into  my  sleepless  eye, 
Which  only  turned  to  see  them  die. 

"  The  winds  like  mighty  spirits  came, 
Alive  and  pure  and  strong  as  flame, 
At  last  to  lift  me  from  my  shame; 

"  For  oft  I  heard  them  onward  go, 
Felt  in  the  air  their  great  wings  row, 
As  down  they  dipped  in  journeying  slow. 

"  Their  course  they  steered  above  my  head, 
One  strong  voice  to  another  said,  — 
'  Why  sits  she  here  so  drear  and  dead  ? 


[16] 

"'Her  kingdom  stretches  far  away; 
Beyond  the  utmost  verge  of  day, 
Her  myriad  children  dance  and  play.' 

"  Then  throbbed  my  mother's  heart  again, 
Then  knew  my  pulses  finer  pain, 
Which  wrought  like  fire  within  my  brain. 

"  I  sought  my  young  barbarians,  where 
A  mellower  light  broods  on  the  air, 
And  heavier  blooms  swing  incense  rare. 

"  Swart-skinned,  crisp-haired,  they  did  not  shun 
The  burning  arrows  of  the  sun ; 
Erect  as  palms  stood  every  one. 

"  I  said,  —  These  shall  live  out  their  day 
In  song  and  dance  and  endless  play; 
The  children  of  the  world  are  they. 

"  Nor  need  they  delve  with  heavy  spade; 
Their  bread,  on  emerald  dishes  laid, 
Sets  forth  a  banquet  in  each  shade. 


[17] 

"  Only  the  thoughtful  bees  shall  store 
Their  honey  for  them  evermore; 
They  shall  not  learn  such  toilsome  lore; 

"  Their  finest  skill  shall  be  to  snare 
The  birds  that  flaunt  along  the  air, 
And  deck  them  in  their  feathers  rare. 

"  So  centuries  went  on  their  way, 
And  brought  fresh  generations  gay 
On  my  savannahs  green  to  play. 

"  There  came  a  change.  They  took  my  free, 
My  careless  ones,  and  the  great  sea 
Blew  back  their  endless  sighs  to  me: 

"  With  earthquake  shudderings  oft  the  mould 
Would  gape;  I  saw  keen  spears  of  gold 
Thrusting  red  hearts  down,  not  yet  cold 

"  But  throbbing  wildly;  dreadful  groans 
Stole  upward  through  Earth's  ribbed  stones 
And  crept  along  through  all  my  zones. 


[18] 

"  I  sought  again  my  desert  bare, 
But  still  they  followed  on  the  air, 
And  still  I  hear  them  everywhere. 

"  So  sit  I  dreary,  desolate, 
Till  the  slow-moving  hand  of  Fate 
Shall  lift  me  from  my  sunken  state." 

Her  great  lips  closed  upon  her  moan ; 
Silently  sate  she  on  her  throne, 
Rigid  and  black,  as  carved  in  stone. 


JESUS   AND   THE   DOVE 

A    CATHOLIC    LEGEND 
TO  A.  H.  W. 

WITH  patient  hand  Jesus  in  clay  once  wrought, 
And  made  a  snowy  dove  that  upward  flew : 

Dear  child,  from  all  things  draw  some  holy  thought, 
That  like  his  dove  they  may  fly  upward  too. 

Mary,  the  mother  good  and  mild, 
Went  forth  one  summer's  day, 

That  Jesus  and  his  comrades  all 
In  meadows  green  might  play. 

To  find  the  brightest,  freshest  flowers, 
They  search  the  meadows  round, 

They  twined  them  all  into  a  wreath, 
And  little  Jesus  crowned. 

Tired  of  play,  they  came  at  last 

And  sat  at  Mary's  feet, 
While  Jesus  asked  his  mother  dear 

A  story  to  repeat. 


[20] 

"And  we,"  said  one,  "from  out  this  clay 

Will  make  some  little  birds, 
So  shall  we  all  sit  quietly 

And  heed  the  mother's  words." 

Then  Mary,  in  her  gentle  voice, 

Told  of  a  little  child, 
Who  lost  her  way  one  dark,  dark  night 

Upon  a  dreary  wild ; 

And  how  an  angel  came  to  her, 
And  made  all  bright  around, 

And  took  the  trembling  little  one 

From  off  the  damp,  hard  ground; 

And  how  he  bore  her  in  his  arms 

Up  to  the  blue  so  far, 
And  how  he  laid  her  fast  asleep, 

Down  in  a  silver  star. 

The  children  sit  at  Mary's  feet, 
But  not  a  word  they  say, 

So  busily  their  fingers  work 

To  mould  the  birds  of  clay. 


[21] 

But  now  the  clay  that  Jesus  held 
And  turned  unto  the  light, 

And  moulded  with  a  patient  touch, 
Changed  to  a  perfect  white. 

And  slowly  grew  within  his  hands 

A  fair  and  gentle  dove, 
Whose  eyes  unclose,  whose  wings  unfold, 

Beneath  his  look  of  love. 

The  children  drop  their  birds  of  clay, 
And  by  his  side  they  stand. 

To  look  upon  the  wondrous  dove, 
He  holds  within  his  hand. 

And  when  he  bends  and  softly  breathes, 
Wide  are  the  wings  outspread, 

And  when  he  bends  and  breathes  again, 
It  hovers  round  his  head. 

Slowly  it  rises  in  the  air 

Before  their  eager  eyes, 
And  with  a  white  and  steady  wing, 

Higher  and  higher  flies. 


[22] 

The  children  all  stretch  forth  their  arms, 

As  if  to  draw  it  down, 
"  Dear  Jesus  made  the  little  dove 
From  out  the  clay  so  brown. 

"  Canst  thou  not  live  with  us  below, 

Thou  little  dove  of  clay, 
And  let  us  hold  thee  in  our  hands, 
And  feed  thee  every  day  ? 

"  The  little  dove  it  hears  us  not, 

But  higher  still  doth  fly; 
It  could  not  live  with  us  below, 
Its  home  is  in  the  sky." 

Mary,  who  silently  saw  all, 

That  mother  true  and  mild, 

Folded  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
And  kneeled  before  her  child. 


THE   MORNING-GLORY 

WE  wreathed  about  our  darling's  head  the  morning-glory 

bright ; 

Her  little  face  looked  out  beneath,  so  full  of  life  and  light, 
So  lit  as  with  a  sunrise,  that  we  could  only  say 
She  is  the  morning-glory  bright,  and  her  poor  types  are  they. 

So  always  from  that  happy  time  we  called  her  by  that  name, 
And  very  fitting  did  it  seem,  for  sure  as  morning  came, 
Behind  her  cradle-bars  she  'd  smile  to  catch  the  first  faint  ray, 
As  from  the  trellis  smiles  the  flower,  and  opens  to  the  day. 

. 

But  not  so  beautiful  they  rear  their  airy  cups  of  blue, 

As  turned  her  sweet  eyes  to  the  light,  brimmed  with  sleep's 

tender  dew; 
And  not  so  close  their  tendrils  fine  round  their  supports  are 

thrown, 
As  those  dear  arms,  whose  outstretched  plea  called  all  hearts 

to  her  own. 

We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come,  even  as  comes  the  flower, 
The  last  and  perfect  added  gift,  to  crown  Love's  morning  hour; 
And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth  the  love  we  could  not  say, 
As  on  the  little  dew-drops  round  shines  back  the  heart  of  day. 


[24] 

We  never  could  have  thought,  O  God !  that  she  would  wither 

up 

Almost  before  the  day  was  done,  like  the  morning-glory's  cup ; 
We  never  could  have  thought  that  she  would  bow  her  noble 

head, 
Till  she  lay  stretched  before  our  sight,  withered,  and  cold, 

and  dead. 

The  morning-glory's  blossoming  will  soon  be  coming  round, 
We  see  their  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves  upspringing  from  the 

ground, 

The  tender  things  the  winter  killed,  renew  again  their  birth, 
But  the  glory  of  our  morning  has  passed  away  from  earth. 

In  vain,  O  Earth!  our  aching  eyes  stretch  over  thy  green 

plain, 

Too  harsh  thy  dews,  too  cold  thine  air,  her  spirit  to  detain; 
But  in  the  groves  of  Paradise,  full  surely  we  shall  see 
Our  morning-glory  beautiful  twine  round  our  dear  Lord's 

knee. 


THE   SLAVE-MOTHER 

HER  new-born  child  she  holdeth,  but  feels  within  her  heart 
It  is  not  hers,  but  his  who  can  out-bid  her  in  the  mart; 
And  through  the  gloomy  midnight  her  prayer  goes  up  on  high, 
"  God  grant  my  little  helpless  one  hi  helplessness  may  die ! " 

"  If  she  must  live  to  womanhood,  oh  may  she  never  know, 
Uncheered  by  mother's  happiness,  the  mother's  depth  of  woe ! 
And  may  I  lie  within  my  grave  before  that  day  I  see, 
When  she  sits,  as  I  am  sitting,  with  a  slave-child  on  her 
knee!" 

The  little  arms  steal  upward,  and  then  upon  her  breast 
She  feels  the  brown  and  velvet  hands  that  never  are  at  rest; 
No  sense  of  joy  they  waken,  but  thrills  of  bitter  pain,  — 
She  thinks  of  him  who  counteth  o'er  the  gold  those  hands 
shall  gain. 

Then  on  her  face  she  looketh,  but  not  as  mother  proud, 
And  seeth  how  her  features,  as  from  out  a  dusky  cloud, 
Are  tenderly  unfolding,  far  softer  than  her  own, 
And  how  upon  the  rounded  cheek  a  fairer  light  is  thrown; 


[26] 

And  she  trembles  in  her  agony,  and  on  her  prophet  heart 

There  drops  a  gloomy  shadow  down,  that  never  can  de 
part,  — 

She  cannot  look  upon  that  face,  where,  in  the  child's  pure 
bloom, 

Is  writ  with  such  dread  certainty  the  woman's  loathsome 
doom. 

She  cannot  bear  to  know  her  child  must  be  as  she  hath  been, 
Yet  she  sees  but  one  deliverance  from  infamy  and  sin,  — 
And  so  she  cries  at  midnight,  with  exceeding  bitter  cry, 
"  God  grant  my  little  helpless  one  in  helplessness  may  die ! " 


NECKLACES 

THAT  was  a  fair  one  which  a  Queen 
Pulled  the  great  pearl  from,  in  her  spleen, 
And  drank  its  rich  corroded  sheen ; 

And  dazzling  bright  was  that  which  met, 
And  clasped  its  fatal  diamond  net 
About  Maria  Antoinette; 

And  cool  and  fresh  the  dripping  band 
Which  poor  Undine,  with  trembling  hand, 
Snatched  from  the  wave  for  Hildebrand; 

But  better  mine,  a  little  thread 

Of  jasmine  blossoms,  tipped  with  red, 

As  if  in  breaking  they  had  bled. 

It  was  all  sweetness,  and  to  one 
Whose  life  on  shore  had  just  begun, 
The  very  best  beneath  the  sun ! 

Malta,  August  23,  1851. 

[NOTE.    The  boys  in  the  streets  of  Malta  string  the  jasmine  blossoms 
and  give  or  sell  them  to  the  passers-by.] 


CADIZ 

WE  saw  fair  Cadiz  gleam  out  suddenly, 

White  as  if  builded  of  the  foam  of  Ocean ; 

White  as  a  bride,  with  orange  blossoms  free 

Scattered  upon  her;  and  it  seemed  to  me 

Her  sweet  breath  met  us  with  the  wind's  least  motion. 

And  by  her  side  a  cloudy  mountain  rose, 

Its  top  enfolding  soft  a  purple  tower; 

Such  shapes  sometimes  our  new-world  sunset  shows, 

But  thou,  old  mountain !  on  thy  sides  still  flower 

The  very  blooms  of  poor  Zarifa's  bower. 


And  from  thy  purple  turrets  leaning  low, 

Thy  course  is  seen,  oh  shining  Guadalquiver ! 

Rushing  towards  the  sea,  its  waves  to  strew 
With  leaves  of  old  Romance, 
And  blend  with  Ocean's  flow 

Fresh  sighs  for  youth  and  beauty  gone  forever. 


[29] 

Fade  once  again  on  the  horizon's  rim, 
Take  back  the  vision  and  the  sweet  emotion, 
Oh  lovely  Cadiz !  bride  so  fair  and  dim ! 
Drained  is  the  cup  thou  filled'st  me  to  the  brim, 
And  dropped  within  the  bluest  wave  of  Ocean ! 

Written  at  sea,  off  Cadiz. 


ROME 

THE  sun  had  set,  the  city  gates  were  passed, 

Up  swelled  the  mighty  dome; 
The  dream  of  childhood  had  come  true  at  last, 

We  were  in  Rome ! 

The  fountains  trembled  in  their  light  and  shade, 

The  pale  new  moon  was  dropping  down  the  sky, 

The  pillars  of  the  stately  colonnade 
Seemed  to  be  marching  by. 

And  Rome  lay  all  before  us  in  its  glory, 

Its  glory  and  its  beautiful  decay, 
But,  like  the  student  in  the  oft-read  story, 

I  could  have  turned  away, 

To  the  still  chamber  with  its  half -closed  shutter, 
Where  the  beloved  father  lay  in  pain, 

To  sit  beside  him  in  contentment  utter, 
Never  to  part  again. 


THE   GRAVE   OF   KEATS 

Bur  one  rude  stone  for  him  whose  song 
Revived  the  Grecian's  plastic  ease, 

Till  men  and  maidens  danced  along 
In  youth  perpetual  on  his  frieze ! 

Where  lies  that  mould  of  senses  fine 
Men  knew  as  Keats  awhile  ago, 

We  cannot  trace  a  single  sign 

Of  all  that  made  his  joy  below. 

There  are  no  trees  to  talk  of  him 

Who  knew  their  hushes  and  their  swells, 
Where  myriad  leaves  in  forest  dim 

Build  up  their  cloudy  citadels. 

No  mystic-signaled  passion-flowers 

Spread  their  flat  discs,  while  buds  more  fair 
Swing  like  great  bells,  in  frail  green  towers, 

To  toll  away  the  summer  air. 


[32] 

O  Mother  Earth !  thy  sides  he  bound 
With  fax-off  Venus'  warmer  zone, 

With  statelier  sons  thy  landscape  crowned, 

Whose  chiming  voices  matched  thine  own ! 

O  Mother  Earth,  what  hast  thou  brought 
This  tender  frame  that  loved  thee  well  ? 

Harsh  grass  and  weeds  alone  are  wrought 
On  his  low  grave's  uneven  swell. 

Rome,  March  20,  1851. 


AVIGNON 

THE  July  day  grew  to  a  close,  the  fret  of  travel  passed, 
The  cool  and  moonlit  court-yard  of  the  inn  was  gained  at  last, 
Where  oleanders  greeted  us  between  their  stately  ranks, 
As  pink  and  proud  as  if  they  grew  on  native  Indian  banks : 
Seen  from  our  chamber-window's  ledge,  they  looked  more 

strangely  fair, 
Like  blossomed  baskets,  lightly  poised  upon  the  summer  air. 

When  came  the  sultry  morning  sun,  I  did  not  care  to  go 
On  dusty  roads,  but  stayed  to  see  my  oleanders  glow 
Within  their  shadowy  oasis ;  —  the  pilgrimage  was  long 
To  Petrarch's  home ;  hot  alien  winds  dried  up  his  dewy  song ;  — 
Though  Laura's  cheek,  with  centuries  sweet,  still  blushes  at 

his  call, 
Her  blush  was  not  so  bright  as  yours,  my  oleanders  tall! 

And  fiercer  grew  the  summer  day,  while  in  the  court  below, 
The  white-capped  peasant-women  kept  moving  to  and  fro, 


[34] 

With  little  laughs,  and  endless  talks,  whose  murmur  rose  to  me 

Like  the  spring-chats  of  careless  birds  from  blossomed  apple- 
tree; 

And,  hearing  it,  I  blessed  the  choice  that  kept  me  there  that 
day, 

With  my  stately  oleanders  keeping  all  the  world  at  bay. 

The  masonry  of  Nismes  was  lost,  but  still  I  could  not  sigh, 
For  Roman  work  looks  sad  when  we  have  bidden  Rome  good 
bye; 

Prison  and  castle  of  the  Pope  stood  close  upon  the  hill, 
But  of  castle  and  of  prison  my  soul  had  had  its  fill ;  — 
I  knew  that  blood-stains,  old  and  dark,  clung  to  the  inner  wall, 
And  blessed  the  lovely,  living  bloom  of  oleanders  tall. 

Thou  pleasant,  pleasant  court-yard,  I  make  to  thee  a  crown 
Of  gems  from  Murray's  casket,  then  shut  the  red  lid  down, 
Contented  if  I  still  may  keep,  beneath  a  sky  of  blue, 
The  tender  treasure  of  the  day  when  first  my  spirit  knew 
Thy  quiet,  and  thy  shadow,  and  thy  bird-like  gossip,  all 
Inclosed  within  that  sunset  wreath  of  oleanders  tall. 


ROUEN,    PLACE   DE   LA   PUCELLE 

HERE  blooms  the  legend,  fed  by  Time  and  Chance, 
Fresh  as  the  morning,  though  with  centuries  old, 

The  whitest  lily  on  the  shield  of  France, 
With  heart  of  virgin  gold. 

Along  the  square  she  moved,  sweet  Joan  of  Arc, 
With  face  more  pallid  than  a  daylit  star, 

Half-seen,  half-doubted,  while  before  her  dark 
Stretched  the  array  of  war. 

Swift  passed  the  battle-smoke  of  lying  breath 
From  off  her  path,  as  if  a  wind  had  blown, 

Showing  no  faithless  King,  but  righteous  Death, 
On  the  low  wooden  throne. 

He  would  reward  her :  she  who  meekly  wore 
Alike  the  gilded  mail  and  peasant  gown, 

As  meekly  now  received  one  honor  more, 
The  formless,  fiery  crown. 


[36] 

A  white  dove  trembled  up  the  heated  air, 

And  in  the  opening  zenith  found  its  goal; 

Soft  as  a  downward  feather,  dropped  a  prayer 
For  each  repentant  soul. 


THE   SICK-ROOM 

A  SPIRIT  is  treading  the  earth, 

As  wind  treads  the  vibrating  string; 
I  know  thy  feet  so  beautiful, 

Thy  punctual  feet,  O  Spring! 

They  slide  from  far-off  mountains, 
As  slides  the  untouched  snow; 

They  move  over  deepening  meadows, 
As  vague  cloud-shadows  blow. 

Thou  wilt  not  enter  the  chamber, 
The  door  stands  open  in  vain; 

Thou  art  pluming  the  wands  of  cherry 
To  lattice  the  window  pane. 

Thou  flushest  the  sunken  orchard 
With  the  lift  of  thy  rosy  wing; 

The  peach  will  not  part  with  her  sunrise 
Though  great  noon-bells  should  ring. 


[38] 

O  life,  and  light,  and  gladness, 

Tumultuous  everywhere ! 
O  pain  and  benumbing  sadness, 

That  brood  in  the  heavy  air! 

Here  the  fire  alone  is  busy, 

And  wastes,  like  the  fever's  heat, 

f^'tr-  •"»*!  <.&  t>Wf  •-•!''•  -jfYvlJ  F 

The  wood  that  enshrined  past  summers, 
Past  summers  as  bounteous  as  fleet. 

The  beautiful  hanging  gardens 

That  rocked  in  the  morning  wind, 

And  sheltered  a  dream  of  Faery, 
And  life  so  timid  and  kind, 

The  shady  choir  of  the  bobolink, 

The  race-course  of  squirrels  gay,  — 

They  are  changed  into  trembling  smoke- wreaths, 
And  a  heap  of  ashes  gray. 


.    f, 
AN   OPIUM   FANTASY 

Soft  hangs  the  opiate  in  the  brain, 
And  lulling  soothes  the  edge  of  pain, 
Till  harshest  sound,  far  off  or  near, 
Sings  floating  in  its  mellow  sphere. 

What  wakes  me  from  my  heavy  dream  ? 

Or  am  I  still  asleep  ? 
Those  long  and  soft  vibrations  seem 

A  slumberous  charm  to  keep. 

The  graceful  play,  a  moment  stopped, 

Distance  again  unrolls, 
Like  silver  balls,  that,  softly  dropped, 

Ring  into  golden  bowls. 

I  question  of  the  poppies  red, 
The  fairy  flaunting  band, 

While  I  a  weed,  with  drooping  head, 
Within  their  phalanx  stand. 


[40] 

"  Some  airy  one,  with  scarlet  cap, 

The  name  unfold  to  me 
Of  this  new  minstrel,  who  can  lap 
Sleep  in  his  melody  ?  " 

Bright  grew  their  scarlet-kerchiefed  heads, 
As  freshening  winds  had  blown, 

And  from  their  gently  swaying  beds 
They  sang  in  undertone, 

"  Oh,  he  is  but  a  little  owl, 

The  smallest  of  his  kin, 
Who  sits  beneath  the  midnight's  cowl, 
And  makes  this  airy  din." 

"  Deceitful  tongues,  of  fiery  tints, 

Far  more  than  this  you  know,  — 
That  he  is  your  enchanted  prince, 
Doomed  as  an  owl  to  go ; 

"  Nor  his  fond  play  for  years  hath  stopped, 

But  nightly  he  unrolls 
His  silver  balls,  that,  softly  dropped, 
Ring  into  golden  bowls." 


SONNET 

THESE  rugged  wintry  days  I  scarce  could  bear, 

Did  I  not  know  that  in  the  early  spring, 

When  wild  March  winds  upon  their  errands  sing, 

Thou  wouldst  return,  bursting  on  this  still  air, 

Like  those  same  winds,  when,  startled  from  their  lair, 

They  hunt  up  violets  and  free  swift  brooks 

From  icy  cares,  even  as  thy  clear  looks 

Bid  my  heart  bloom  and  sing  and  break  all  care: 

When  drops  with  welcome  rain  the  April  day, 

My  flowers  shall  find  their  April  in  thine  eyes ; 

But  there  the  rain  in  dreamy  clouds  doth  stay, 

As  loath  to  fall  out  of  those  happy  skies ; 

And  sure,  my  love,  thou  art  most  like  to  May, 

That  comes,  with  steady  sun,  when  April  dies. 


SONNET 

IN  the  deep  flushing  of  the  Western  sky, 

The  new  moon  stands  as  she  would  fain  be  gone, 

And,  dropping  earthward,  greet  Endymion : 

If  Death  uplift  me,  even  thus  should  I, 

Companioned  by  the  silver  spirits  high 

And  stationed  on  the  sunset's  crimson  towers, 

Bend  longing  over  earth's  broad  stretch  of  bowers, 

To  where  my  love  beneath  their  shades  might  lie; 

For  I  should  weary  of  the  endless  blue, 

Should  weary  of  my  ever-growing  light, 

If  that  one  soul,  so  beautiful  and  true, 

Were  hidden  by  earth's  vapors  from  my  sight, 

Should  wane  and  wane  as  changeful  planets  do, 

And  move  on  slowly,  wrapt  in  mine  own  night. 


SONNET 


TO 


I  LOVE  thee  —  not  because  thy  love  for  me, 

Like  a  great  sunrise,  did  o'ervault  my  day 

With  purple  light,  and  wrought  upon  my  way 

The  morning  dew  in  fresh  emblazonry; 

Nor  that  thou  seest  all  I  fain  would  be, 

And  thus  dost  call  me  by  mine  angel's  name, 

While  still  my  woman's  heart  beats  free  of  blame 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  thy  charity. 

Oh,  no !  for  wearily  upon  my  soul 

Would  weigh  thy  golden  crown  of  unbought  praise, 

Did  I  not  look  beyond  the  hour's  control, 

To  where  those  fruits  of  perfect  virtue  raise 

Their  bloom,  that  thou  erewhile,  with  prophet  eyes, 

Didst  name  mine  own,  in  groves  of  paradise. 


SONNET 

I  LOVE  thee  for  thyself  alone  —  thyself  alone; 

For  that  great  soul,  whose  breath  most  full  and  rare, 

Shall  to  humanity  a  message  bear, 

Flooding  their  dreary  waste  with  organ-tone : 

The  truth  that  in  thine  eyes  holds  starry  throne 

And  coins  the  words  that  issue  from  thy  lips ; 

Heroic  courage,  that  meets  no  eclipse, 

And  humbler  virtues  on  thy  pathway  strewn ;  — 

These  love  I  so,  that  if  they  swift  uprise 

To  sure  fulfilment  in  more  perfect  spheres, 

Still  will  I  listen  underneath  the  skies 

For  thy  new  song,  with  seldom-dropping  tears, 

And  midst  my  daily  tasks  of  love  will  wait 

The  angel  Death,  guardian  of  Heaven's  gate. 


MEMORIES   OF   WATERS 

(AN  UNFINISHED  POEM,   FOUND  AMONG  HER 
PAPERS) 

OH,  hue  of  the  Mediterranean  sea, 

From  thy  sapphire  cradle  flash  back  on  me ! 

Thine  is  the  bluest  life  that  clings 

To  the  weary  earth;  bright  central  springs 

Bubble  up  with  thine  azure,  and  never  fail, 

Though  the  great  dome  above  thee  curve  cloudy  and  pale; 


When  the  sunset  lingers  by  Capri's  side 
And  throws  across  it  a  golden  fleece, 
Thou  swellest  along  in  bluest  pride, 
Stretching  on,  on,  on,  to  beautiful  Greece; 
And  siren  voices  drip  with  the  oar; 
"  Deeper,  bend  deeper,  to  learn  our  lore, 
The  violet's  secret  grows  not  on  the  shore." 


[46] 

And  thou,  O  Como,  O  purple  one, 
Did  I  not  watch  thee  when  day  was  done, 
With  cheek  bent  sideway  and  half-closed  eyes, 
That  wooed  from  thy  beauty  a  fresh  surprise, 
As  a  great  broad  curtain,  dropping  down 
From  the  sweet  horizon's  ample  crown, 

A  Tyrian  curtain,  whose  edges  were  wrought 
With  villas  and  gardens,  and  all  that  thought 
Can  find  most  lovely  in  dwellings  of  men, 
Deep  fringes  of  vineyards  all  round  thee,  and  then 
A  dream  of  great  snow-peaks  throned  over  all  — 
Thy  purple  is  worthy  those  kings  so  tall. 

In  the  hills  of  Scotland,  you  come  upon 
Strange  waterfalls,  that  the  light  of  the  sun 
Glances  away  from  through  birches  thin ; 
They  fall  with  a  slow  and  hollow  din 
Into  dark,  still  pools  where  you  look  down  deep 
To  see  the  black  surface;  no  Lorelei  there 
Sits  singing  and  combing  her  golden  hair; 
But  Bunyan's  visions  across  you  creep, 
With  a  haunting  feeling  of  one  who  came, 
Her  heart  all  trembling  and  stung  with  shame, 


[47] 

And,  bending  down  to  the  pool's  black  stir, 
Saw  Giant  Despair  looking  up  at  her, 
And  heard  him  call  from  the  hollow  din 
Till  she,  too  ready,  sank  sighing  in. 

Pour  down,  O  Trenton,  thy  amber  screen 
That  the  pool's  dim  surface  no  more  be  seen ! 
Gay  reveller,  tossing  away  thy  wine, 
Thy  golden  sherry,  whose  hue  divine 
Was  never  sphered  in  the  clustering  vine; 
'T  is  Autumn  who  feeds  thee ;  her  banners  she  flings 
Across  thy  full  sources,  and  shakes  in  thy  springs 
Her  whole  wealth  of  colors,  leaves  orange  and  red, 
Green,  purple  and  mottled,  an  emperor's  bed 
For  thy  waters  to  dream  on ;  and  when  they  awake, 
Into  flashes  of  gold  and  of  amber  they  break : 
Oh,  type  of  glad  youth,  forever  be  hung 
With  garlands  of  faces  all  rosy  and  young ! 


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